


Legally Charles

by until_the_earth_is_free



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: (not charles/erik tho don't worry), Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Charles You Slut, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Embarrassment, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Erik has Issues, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Lawyers, Legally Blonde, M/M, Shaw is Creepy, Slow Burn, Trans Charles Xavier, Trans Male Character, bisexual Charles Xavier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 00:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5312186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/until_the_earth_is_free/pseuds/until_the_earth_is_free
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, my dear," his mother cooed down the line in that horrible patronising way of hers.  "You're not possibly going to law school."</p><p>"Really?" Charles replied, anger colouring his trembling voice.  "Because I have a letter here from Cambridge, Massachusetts that might beg to differ."</p><p>***</p><p>[aka. the fic where Charles Xavier one day wakes up and decides to go to Harvard Law, where he meets Erik, the sullen teacher's assistant]</p><p>[aka. the Legally Blonde AU nobody asked for]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS FOR: transphobic parenting, general shitty parenting, a great deal of alcohol, and some one night stands
> 
> Also, the cardigan that Charles wears for orientation is [this vintage beauty](http://www.ebay.com/itm/Vintage-Orvis-Cardigan-Patchwork-Sweater-Men-Large-Cable-Knit-Fisherman-Hipster-/272054147543?hash=item3f57b0d9d7:g:7hwAAOSw1ZBUwAbq)
> 
> Disclaimer: I am a secondary school educated Brit who has no concept of the American graduate school system beyond the film 'Legally Blonde' and a quick scan of Harvard's campus map. I'm sorry if anything is horrendously inaccurate.

 

 

 

 

 

It is often the simplest realisations that are the most life-changing. For Charles (né Charlotte) Xavier, it was the very basic realisation that he hated his mother.

He knew that he'd always had a muted dislike for his mother, one that was amplified most recently when she had hung up the phone on him when he had mentioned the possibility of hormone therapy, but he hadn't truly realised how much he hated her until now.

It was at another one of her ridiculous garden parties, where everyone wore white or, if one was daring, a light cream. She was on her third glass of Pimm's, leaning heavily on the shoulder of some middle-aged bachelor and giggling in a demure way that Charles knew she wasn't drunk enough to be genuine for. The only thing worse than watching his fifty year-old mother drunkenly flirt was being on his fifth glass of Pimm's, knowing full well that he had gone to a party last night, been a lot drunker, and had done a great deal more than flirting.

Maybe that was why he was in such a bad mood, Charles considered, chewing on an alcohol-drenched strawberry and embracing the horrible fizzing feeling on his tongue. The girl he'd hooked up with last night was witty and fun for the most part, but she'd kept telling him that she was "only bi-curious".

'Fantastic,' Charles had thought, drily. 'What does that have to do with me?' He might have said that out loud. He wasn't sure. He had been very drunk.

Now, as Charles sourly swallowed a whole leaf of mint, he decided he was done with mere hatred. He had to get his shit together. During this rare moment of great decision-making, he even made a scribbled note of this on his hand in biro, so he wouldn't forget when he was sober.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few days after her mother's most recent garden party during which she had most conveniently scheduled a vague "work thing", Raven Xavier received a call from her brother at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night. Assuming it was another typical Charles drunk dial, she smiled fondly and picked up the phone.

"Hi, little bro."

"Raven!" exclaimed an unusually sober Charles from down the line. There was some shuffling and Raven could just pick out the sounds of rustling fabric. "You're not busy, are you?"

"Not at all," Raven replied, just as she heard a loud thump from Charles' end. "Charles, what the hell are you doing over there?"

"I'm getting my shit together," Charles explained cheerfully. "I am currently in the process of sorting my clothes. Then, I'm going to apply to law school. You should come over to my dorm sometime this week to see if you want any of the clothes I would otherwise donate to charity."

Raven wasn't sure whether she wanted to laugh or frown so she did both.

"Why?"

"Well, some of my old dresses might fit you and I thought-"

"No," Raven interrupted. "I mean, why would you want to apply to law school? I didn't know you wanted to be a lawyer."

"Neither did I, until recently," Charles replied. "But I really don't think I want this to be my life."

Raven paused. She didn't really need to ask what "this" referred to.

Xaviers didn't go to law school. Xaviers took fashionable courses at liberal arts colleges and got degrees like Land Economy, with which they could accessorise their dusty CV for a brief ego boost as they spent the rest of their lives, sustained by old money. Thankfully for Raven, her path of study in Photography had been seen as a lovely hobby for a young lady of her bloodline. Even more thankfully, Raven had actually excelled at photography to the point of job security. Now, she managed to escape most familial interactions through a sustainable income and extremely flexible working hours that she could twist in order to avoid large gatherings of relatives.

She knew that Charles wasn't cut out for a life as a typical Xavier, nor was he any good at artsy stuff. Charles was smart, almost scarily so, and the lack of an academic challenge at his vague study of Liberal Arts at a college full of rich, unmotivated kids seemed to cause a bunch of pent-up energy in him that he only seemed to release through drinking and sleeping around.

Now that she was really thinking about it, maybe this sudden decision to apply to law school wasn't such a bad idea.

"Raven?"

"Yeah," Raven replied quickly. "I was just thinking. Where were you thinking of applying?"

"Harvard, probably," Charles responded airily. "I'll have to take a bunch of tests first though."

Raven didn't think he'd have any problem with the entrance tests, but she didn't say it out loud, lest Charles' ego become even more inflated than it already was.

"Okay," she said, stifling a yawn. "Was there anything you specifically wanted to talk about?"

"Yes," Charles said, his tone instantly serious. "I would like your help this weekend. If I'm going to be a serious lawyer, I need to look the part. I need your expert artist advice on lawyerly outfits."

Raven chuckled, but a little sadly, recognising the underlying message to this request.

When Raven was nineteen and her brother was fifteen, Charles had been refused entry to the men's changing room by some horrible shop assistant with a smile and a "the ladies' section is over there, ma'am". Nowadays, Charles didn't usually have a problem holding his own with transphobic dickheads, but he had been a fucking kid at the time. Trapped between wanting to defend her little brother and not wanting to out him to the entire department store, Raven had simply yelled: "I think that woman is trying to steal a sweater!", gesturing wildly at no one in particular in the direction of the other side of the store. The asshole shop assistant had immediately rushed away and Charles snuck into a changing room in the commotion. Since then, Charles had always appreciated backup when it came to shopping trips.

"Of course," Raven said, mimicking Charles' serious tone. "When do you want me over?"

"Anytime past noon on Saturday," Charles said.

"Of course," Raven said again, stifling a laugh at the quaintness of Charles' implication of a scheduled Friday night hangover. "I'll see you then."

"Love you," sang Charles' voice down the line.

"Love you too," Raven replied and she hung up the call.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was April. Charles was standing in his dorm room, his hands shaking as he held a phone to his ear and a letter in his hand.

"Mother," he said, as soon as he heard the other side answer. "I'm going to Harvard Law School."

"Oh, my dear," his mother cooed down the line in that horrible patronising way of hers. "You're not possibly going to graduate school."

"Really?" Charles replied, anger colouring his trembling voice. "Because I have a letter here from Cambridge, Massachusetts that might beg to differ."

There was a cold silence down the line.

"You already applied?" his mother asked, stiffly. "You applied without telling me? Charlotte, we could have pledged a donation for you-"

"Don't call me Charlotte," Charles interrupted. "And I don't need your money. I have the acceptance letter to prove it."

"You got into Harvard Law?" his mother asked incredulously, as if this fact had only dawned on her just now.

"What, like it's hard?" Charles asked sardonically.

"You wouldn't have preferred to just take up extra courses after graduation?"

"No, mother," Charles said. "I wouldn't."

"Charlotte-"

"Don't call me Charlotte!" Charles snapped.

There was a harsh intake of breath on his mother's side.

Then, more gently, he said, "my name is Charles now, mother. I would really appreciate it if you called me that."

His mother huffed.

"I just don't understand why you insist that everyone must play along with this charade," she said icily. "I'm tired of making excuses for your behaviour to our friends. Aren't you a little old for this?"

Charles took a deep breath, his mind reeling with possible comebacks and biting insults.

Instead, he merely smiled and said sweetly, "I've been on hormone therapy since January. My doctor says my voice is due to break within the next month. Have fun explaining that one to your friends."

He hung up before she could reply and tossed his phone onto the bed. With a shaky laugh, he sat down on his ugly dormitory carpet and dug his palms into his eyes until the stinging was replaced by a dull ache and a loud heartbeat in his skull.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Much to Raven's exasperation, Charles Xavier showed up to orientation at Harvard Law in a patchwork cable knit cardigan and a dark green tie.

"Absolutely everyone is going to be wearing jeans," she had told him, as she helped him unpack his suitcase into his new suite. "At least wear slacks without a damn crease down the middle."

"The only jeans I own are inappropriate for law school," Charles had replied, folding yet another cardigan into his chest of drawers.

However, upon arriving at the queue to sign in for orientation, he quickly discovered that jeans weren't the issue: everyone in his class seemed to be wearing the Harvard T-shirt that had arrived in the mail with their acceptance letters. Charles' vintage beige cardigan stuck out like an ugly band-aid in the sea of crimson.

When he arrived at the desk to check his name off, he discovered, to his horror, that he had been registered as Charlotte instead of Charles. With a neat line in biro, he crossed out the "ott" and wrote a small "s" on the list, hoping to God that the administration would get the hint.

It wasn't that he was ashamed of being trans, he told himself. It was just that this was the first time after his transition that he could introduce himself as Charles without someone frowning and asking him to repeat that, and he really didn't want to have to go through all of that again. Not to mention the fact that he already stood out more than he would have liked, what with his infamous surname and unconventional fashion choices.

"Here you go, Mr Charles Xavier!" said a perky girl a few years older than Charles from behind the desk, handing him a thick white envelope. "Your academic timetable and the names and email addresses of everyone you could need to help you settle in."

"Thanks," Charles replied, taking the envelope. "Is the social calendar included in this?"

"The what?" asked the girl, furrowing her brow.

"The social calendar," Charles repeated. "You know, with the list of the semester's social events and organised mixers?"

The girl laughed uneasily.

"I don't think you've come the right graduate program if you think you're going to have time for mixers," she said, awkwardly.

"Oh," said Charles and he moved out of the way for the queue, flushing darkly.

Harvard Law was definitely going to take some getting used to.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Charles finally got back to his suite after a long day of introductions and embarrassing himself further, he noticed that his suitemate had moved in. Or at least, someone's converses were neatly placed right by the front door and there was a terrible carcinogenic smell coming from the suite's tiny kitchen.

"Hello?" Charles called out, kicking off his boat shoes and opening the door to the kitchen.

There, he saw a gangly twenty-something year old, removing a smoky black mess from the oven and swearing profusely.

"Oh fuck," the man said, as he looked up and saw Charles in the doorway. "Do you mind opening a window?"

Charles instantly walked over to the other side of the room and pushed the window open, much to the relief of his lungs. By the time he'd turned around, the other man was using a knife to scrape soot off the oven tray into the trash can.

"I'm really sorry," the man said, pushing his glasses back up his nose with the back of his wrist. "I was going to make us both some dinner as a goodwill gesture to my new roommate but I think I might have forgotten to take it out after twenty minutes like the recipe said and now the entire apartment smells like smoke and I'm so awfully sorry."

With a sigh that might have been another expletive, he clattered the tray and knife into the kitchen sink and turned the tap on. He turned around and held out his hand, which was slightly grey with ash, and said:

"I'm Hank McCoy, your new flatmate."

Charles took the hand and shook it.

"Charles Xavier. Do you like delivery pad thai?"

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hank McCoy, as it turned out, was an awfully decent fellow and nothing like anyone Charles had ever met before. He was incredibly neat in a way that put Charles to shame and had a great collection of Spanish literature in his room. He also apparently didn't like drinking, which might have been the most shocking statement Charles had ever heard.

"I don't think I have ever met someone who didn't like getting drunk out of their wits," Charles admitted, with a mouth full of prawn and noodles. "Except maybe my cousin, who's twelve years old."

Hank shrugged.

"I never really went to a party at undergrad so I never understood the cultural appeal," he said.

Okay, that was definitely the most shocking statement Charles had ever heard.

"Never?" he asked incredulously. "What university did you go to?"

"Harvard."

"My friend," Charles said, clasping his flatmate's shoulder seriously. "We need to get thee to a rave, stat. That is," he added, "if you'd want to go."

Hank shrugged again.

"Why not?" he said with a non-committal raise of the eyebrows.

Charles grinned.

"As soon as I find a bloody social calendar, we are going to an absolute rager."

 

 

* * *

 

 

After some investigative research, Charles discovered that ragers don't exist at Harvard Law School or, if they did, there was no way he was going to get invited to one. He'd talked around and even flirted with at least a dozen different people and nobody seemed to know about any such parties. Instead, he got judgemental looks and the occasional snide laugh.

At the very least, he was becoming good friends with Hank, since he was actually coming home to the suite every evening. Hank was a good person to share a suite with: in that he was nine times out of ten reading or studying, and in that one tenth of the time, he was good conversational material. However, Charles did miss getting smashed and making out with four to five people in one night.

Maybe it was for the best, he thought, as he looked down at the university map to try to find his class. Not only was law school supposed to be motivation to get his shit together, he didn't exactly want the entire campus knowing he was trans. Maybe it was just better for everyone if Charles Xavier kept his clothes on for once.

Charles checked his watch. There were only three minutes for him to get to his first class with Professor Sebastian Shaw and he didn't want to be late. Where the hell was the Austin building?

Glancing around the red-brick buildings which all kind of looked the same, Charles spotted someone sitting on the steps outside one of the blocks. Confused and desperate, he walked towards the figure and noticed several things.

Firstly, this person was an extremely hot guy. Like, oxygen-depriving levels of hot. Not to mention the fact that he was currently wearing a black turtleneck that highlighted his devastatingly sharp jaw line and reading a novella with a German title. Secondly, this guy looked maybe two years older than Charles, which meant that he was probably available for flirting, and also, more urgently, probably knew where Sebastian Shaw's room was.

Smiling that crooked smile guys always seemed to dig, Charles walked up to the stranger, who hadn't yet looked up from his book.

"Hi," he said, incredibly pleased by how deep his voice was sounding today. "I'm Charles and also very lost. Do you have any idea where Professor Shaw's room is?"

The hot guy looked up and, Jesus, his eyes were blue.

"Criminal Law 101?" he asked, and his voice had the gentlest tint of a German accent. "I'm heading there right now."

"Brilliant!" Charles exclaimed, beaming.

The hot guy looked back down and slowly turned a page of his book.

Checking his watch again, Charles said, with faltering confidence, "class starts in two minutes."

The hot guy sighed, put his book into his satchel and entered the door of the building on whose steps they had been talking, Charles following dutifully, with an uneasy feeling in his gut.

After a few turns of the corridor, they entered an enormous lecture hall that seemed to be completely packed with students, save one solitary empty seat in the front row. With a clench in his stomach, Charles glanced at the hot guy, expecting him to claim the seat. Instead, the hot guy moved purposefully towards the desk at the front of the room, murmured something to the professor, and sat on a chair in front of the blackboard, facing the class. Opening up a laptop, he looked at Charles with an expression of confusion and amusement.

Mortified, Charles rushed to the empty seat and sat down, taking out his notebook and collection of chewed biros. Face still warm, he tried not to feel intimidated by how many people had brought their laptops to take notes.

"Good morning, everyone," the professor greeted, his voice instantly quieting any pre-class chitchat. "I am Professor Shaw and this is Criminal Law 101. Beside me is Mr Erik Lehnsherr, who is my teaching assistant and will be helping me with marking and so on."

Oh crap. The part of Charles' brain that still felt disappointment prickled the back of his neck. So much for hot guy being "available for flirting".

"Also," Shaw continued. "I should warn you that in addition to competing against each other for the top grade in this class, you'll also be competing for one of my firm's highly coveted four internship spots where you will get to assist on actual cases. Let the bloodbath begin. Now, let's commence with our usual torture. Let's see who bothered to complete the optional reading."

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Was optional reading secretly a code for required reading? Charles hastily looked around the room to see if anyone was similarly panicking. Either everyone had completed the reading or everyone had a really strong poker face. Charles was rooting for the latter.

"Xavier?" Shaw asked, looking down at what appeared to be a register.

Charles tentatively raised his hand and prayed that some deity would take pity on him and give him the answer.

"Would you rather have a client who committed a crime _malum in se_ or _malum prohibitum_?" Shaw asked, barely looking up at Charles.

" _Malum in se_ ," Charles said with a confident smile, because if there was one Xavier trait he was grateful to have inherited it was the ability to bullshit his way out of a situation.

"You would rather have a client who'd committed a dangerous crime as opposed to a regulatory infraction?" Shaw asked, looking up with one eyebrow raised.

"Why yes," Charles confirmed, trying to ignore the way Erik was smirking down at his laptop and looking Shaw straight in the eye. "Because I'm not afraid of a challenge."

Shaw frowned and continued to hold eye contact with Charles for a full second, before he pulled away and started chuckling.

"You've got guts, Xavier, I'll give you that," he said, before going back to the register to find another victim. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Between his first and second classes in Criminal Law 101, Charles took it upon himself to go the library and read every book on Shaw's optional reading list, twice. Even Hank, who was possibly the nerdiest person Charles had ever met, commented on this thoroughness.

"I can't believe I'm saying this to you," Hank said, while he ate takeout his half of their pizza on the floor of their living room and Charles' half remained untouched. "But I think you might be taking this class too seriously."

"Hm?" Charles said, looking up from his textbook for the first time in an hour.

Hank sighed."Is this about Erik?" he asked.

Charles actually put the book down.

"Who's Erik?" he asked, unconvincingly.

"Shaw's really attractive teacher's assistant," Hank said, awkwardly. "Apparently, he's most of the reason anyone does the work. You know, to impress him."

"I'm not trying to impress him!" Charles said, outraged, grabbing a slice of slightly cold pizza. "I just don't want him to think I'm not smart enough to be a lawyer just because I acted like a bimbo that one time."

Hank raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn't probe that statement.

"How many pages have you got left tonight?" he asked.

"Only two hundred or so."

"Brilliant," Hank replied. "Project Runway reruns are on at 10."

Sometimes, Charles was really grateful for his flatmate. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Charles knew he had promised himself that he would avoid sleeping with anyone on campus. Although his promiscuous reputation had served him well during several hook-ups at undergraduate level, here, he needed to be known for his metaphorical quick tongue and not his literal one. However, it was a full four weeks into the term, and he had just got 100 on his most recent Criminal Law test. How was a guy supposed to celebrate, if not with alcohol and meaningless sex?

He'd lasted for a month. Getting one's shit together required baby steps, he reasoned, in the taxi into Boston. Over-tipping the taxi driver to avoid awkward change bulges in his jean pockets, he stepped out of the car and found himself at his first Boston bar.

He had briefly entertained the idea of bringing Hank, since he had promised to party with him at some point, but Hank's first party deserved to be at a nicer venue than this beat-up gay bar, where Charles would no doubt ditch him for most of the night. It didn't stop him from feeling guilty though, as he stepped into the hot, loud crowd of people inside.

However, guilt didn't last long in the throbbing music and the swell of bodies grinding and, three hours later, Charles emerged from the building with a ditsy wet smile on his face and cum in his hair, courtesy of some lovely polite med student in a bathroom stall. Quite tipsy and mighty pleased, he stumbled out of the door, accidentally elbowing someone standing outside. As he turned around to apologise, his jaw dropped, as he was making eye contact with none other than Erik Lehnsherr, who was holding a cigarette and leaning against the brick wall of the bar.

"Um, sorry," Charles said nervously wiping his mouth with his sleeve in the most vain attempt to look less debauched than he obviously was.

Erik frowned and took a deep drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke into the street like some sort of sexy dragon.

Sexy dragon? Dear God, Charles really _was_ drunk.

"You missed a spot," Erik said, glancing up at Charles' fringe, before tossing his cigarette and entering the bar.

Self-consciously touching his sex-stained hair, Charles flushed and turned, as gracefully as he could, praying for a taxi to come as soon as possible, lest he remain in the sightline and imagination of one Erik Lehnsherr.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles starts an internship with Shaw's law firm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've written 8000 words of this fic in less than 24 hours dear lord
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: general vague descriptions of sex work, vague descriptions of a murder scene, someone being non-consensually hit on, mentions of transphobia, mentions of transitioning

 

 

 

 

 

 

January in Massachusetts is a bleak affair but, after the general disaster that was Christmas at the Westchester Manor, Charles barely noticed the cold at all. He was excelling at all his classes, getting along brilliantly with his flatmate, and he was barely even annoyed by Erik's savage marking on his papers anymore. Things were turning out well for him: spontaneously deciding to go to law school was probably the smartest thing he'd ever done.

"Xavier?"

"Yes, Professor Shaw?" Charles replied, hastily shoving his notebook into his satchel and standing up.

Shaw waited until everyone in the class except Erik had left until he spoke again.

"You're applying for my internship this term, aren't you?" Shaw asked with a vaguely reptilian smile.

"Oh, probably," Charles said, waving one of his hands. "I just need to get to it."

"The deadline is tomorrow," Shaw said, frowning slightly. "Do you have your resumé with you?"

"Well, sort of..." Charles stuttered.

"Hand it over, then," Shaw commanded, holding out his hand.

Charles took a moment to search through his bag for one of his books, which he opened, revealing a piece of legal pad folded twice, messily. He unfolded this piece of paper, attempted to smooth it quickly on his leg, and handed it over to Shaw.

Shaw's lip twitched as he took the messy handwritten yellow paper that was apparently a resumé. Over Shaw's shoulder, Charles could see Erik trying to hide a smirk. After a quick skim of the paper, Shaw clapped a hand on Charles' shoulder, causing him to jump slightly in surprise.

"Congratulations, Mr Xavier," Shaw said. "You've got the internship."

Charles grinned.

"Thank you," he said, trying to stifle his excitement in a way that was dignified and lawyerly.

"You're a smart kid, Charles," Shaw said. "The kind I want on my team. Work starts in two weeks: Erik will email you the details. Bring breakfast."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"How was my baby brother's first day at the big lawyer firm?" cooed Raven, the moment Charles answered her skype call.

"Shut up," Charles replied, but he was smiling. "And pretty great, actually. The team I'm working with is really cool and they all like me because I brought croissants."

"Suck up," Raven teased. "What's the team like?"

"Well, the guy who sits to the right of me is pretty cool. His name's Matt and he's blind so he uses this braille terminal which translates all of the documents for him. To his right, there's Emma, who's really competent in a kind of scary way? She's not an intern actually. I think she and Shaw might be old friends because they have a lot of inside jokes. Then, across from me is Darwin, who's honestly the quickest learner I've ever met and probably two feet taller than me. To his right is Alex, who seems like your average jock but there must be a reason Shaw picked him for the team, right? And then, of course, there's Erik."

"What's Erik's last name again?" Raven asked, innocently.

"Lehnsherr," Charles replied slowly. "Why?"

"Oh no reason," Raven replied, smiling. Then, with a gasp, she exclaimed, "oh my God, he's hot!"

"What?"

"Type 'Erik Lehnsherr' into Facebook," Raven said, still staring slightly below the camera at something on her laptop screen.

"I already know what he looks like," Charles sighed, but he obeyed, and clicked on the first profile that came up.

"Shit," he breathed. Charles had been expecting one of those high-contrast black and white brooding pictures of Erik gazing into the distance in a way that really accentuated his jaw line. That still would have been pretty hot, but nothing could have prepared him for Erik depicted with a dorky grin that showed off all his teeth, as he held a small adorable child against his hip. Charles considered the fact that he had never seen Erik smile anything more intense than a smirk: this was a whole new side to the man that he had not encountered. He wondered who the toddler was.

"He's not usually like that," Charles mused, still captivated by the grainy profile picture.

"You mean, like, smiling?" Raven asked.

"Yeah."

 

 

* * *

 

 

About two weeks into his internship, which Charles already didn't think could get busier, they were assigned a murder trial.

Angel Salvadore, a twenty year-old woman from Boston, was accused of shooting her father with a handgun when he came home from work two weeks ago. It was up to Shaw's team to defend her.

"Alex, Emma," Shaw directed. "I want you to go down to the precinct and find out exactly what the police have on our defendant. Matt, Darwin, go to the detention centre and collect the defendant's alibi and testimony. Charles, Erik, you need to go to our client's place of work in central Boston."

"Does she work in finance?" Charles asked. The last time he'd been to central Boston was on a bar crawl, but he foggily remembered some smart-looking office buildings.

"Nice try," Shaw replied, distractedly typing something on his laptop. "She's a stripper. Now go."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Going to a strip club at ten o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday with his smoking hot sort-of-boss was not one of Charles' bucket list activities. He had never even gone to a strip club: preferring the sort of clubs where he could do his own stripping.

The strip club was closed when they arrived, much to Charles' discouragement, but not apparently to Erik's, who confidently stepped forward knocked on the door.

"I don't think anyone's i-" Charles said, before he was interrupted by a young woman in a modest black dress opening the door.

"We're not open yet," the woman informed them, getting ready to close the door again.

"Wait!" Charles said, propping his foot in the space between the door and the doorframe. "We're here to talk about Angel Salvadore."

"I don't want to talk to any cops," the woman said. "Please leave."

"We're not cops," Charles replied, earnestly. "My name is Charles Xavier and the fellow next to me is Erik Lehnsherr. We're defence attorneys and we just want to find the truth so we can help Angel. Please help us."

The woman narrowed her eyes and scanned Charles' face, as if checking for signs of deceit.

"Alright," she conceded. "But we've got to talk outside the club."

 

 

* * *

 

 

A few minutes later, they found themselves sitting around a table at a local Costa. Charles had insisted on paying for both Erik and the woman's drinks because it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. Erik had raised an eyebrow, but nevertheless consented. The woman, who introduced herself by her stage name, Phoenix, bit her lip anxiously while waiting for the coffee and, when it arrived, took several quick gulps of it.

"What can you tell us about Angel Salvadore?" Erik asked.

"She's a sweet girl," Phoenix said, and Charles tried to ignore the fact that her nervous leg twitch was jostling the entire table. "All our clients adored her. She was probably the only reason anyone showed up to that sad joint. Honestly, I couldn't believe it when I heard the news."

"What was her relationship with her father like?" Charles asked, trying to maintain as much eye contact as possible while scribbling in his notebook.

"We don't like talking about personal stuff much," Phoenix said, sipping at her coffee. "But I recall her getting excited about her dad's 50th birthday party a few months back. I'd say they were close."

Charles jotted this down and looked over at Erik, who was frowning. Why did he seem so upset: didn't this information work in their client's favour?

"Do you remember seeing her at work February 12th?" Charles asked.

"Oh no, she was off work that whole week. I don't know why."

Charles' face fell.

"You didn't ask her why she was taking the week off?" Erik probed.

"Like I said," Phoenix said, slowly and deliberately. "We don't talk about personal stuff at work."

After a few seconds of intense staring between Phoenix and Erik, Charles cleared his throat.

"I think we have all we need for now," he said, standing up and shrugging on his coat. "Thank you so much for your time and if you remember anything later that you might have forgotten to mention now-" he tore out a page of his notebook and scrawled his name and number across it, "please feel free to call me at any time."

"Sure," Phoenix said, unconvinced, but she took the piece of paper all the same. "I hope you find the bastard who actually did it."

"Me too," Charles said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"What was that?" Erik demanded, the moment he'd changed gear to drive to head back to Shaw's office.

"What do you mean?" Charles asked, confused.

"You can't assume our client is innocent yet, Charles," Erik said with a grimace. "We haven't even heard her alibi yet."

"Can't we?" Charles said. Then, more sarcastically: "I thought I might have once read something about people being 'innocent until proved guilty'."

"Oh mein Gott," Erik muttered, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "You can't possibly be that naïve."

That struck something in Charles.

"Naïve?" he demanded. "That's rich, coming from someone whose first inclination when working a case involving a sex worker and her father is to assume that she killed him!"

Erik's jaw clenched.

"That's not what this is about," he said, his voice dark and low. "When Angel's step-mother came home from the hairdresser at 7:30pm on February 12th, she saw Angel holding the murder weapon, leaning over her father's dead body. Forensics confirmed that there were only Angel's fingerprints left on the handgun and the blood spray supported the theory that Mr Salvadore was shot by someone standing in the kitchen doorway, which could have only been Angel, who was the only person at the residence that evening. All the evidence points towards Angel, Charles, and if you had actually read the autopsy report, you might have agreed with me."

Charles blanched. He had read the autopsy report, but hearing Erik lay out all the evidence like that really shook him. Did becoming a good lawyer necessarily mean becoming cynical as well?

Two almost simultaneous chimes from both Erik's and Charles' phones jerked him out of his reverie. Fumbling with his pocket, Charles took out his phone and checked the text with a horrible feeling in his gut.

"What does it say?" asked Erik, not taking his eyes off the road.

"It's from Darwin. Apparently Angel refuses to give us her alibi."

There was a thick silence, during which Charles almost thought Erik was about to say something but decided better of it, and merely focussed on the road.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

This was probably a terrible idea. In fact, Charles knew it was a terrible idea, but he was nothing if not determined and here he was: at the detention centre, not telling his boss that he was visiting their client, and holding a plastic bag of supplies.

After being hustled around by various members of security and receptionists, he found his way into the visiting room: a long hall, separated down the middle by a glass wall and several phones with which visitors could communicate with inmates. Charles sat down at the seat described by the receptionist, across from a beautiful young woman with dark wavy hair.

"Angel Salvadore?" he asked, picking up the phone.

"That's me," replied a dull voice. "If you're another journalist, you can fuck off."

"Oh no, I'm not a journalist," Charles assured her. "I'm Charles, one of Sebastian Shaw's interns. I'm on your side."

Angel frowned suspiciously.

"I already had Shaw's people come around to ask me questions earlier today," she said, narrowing her eyes.

"I know," Charles said. "Matt and Darwin, right?"

"Hot white guy and hot black guy?"

"That's them," Charles replied with a laugh.

Angel smiled.

"I'm not going to tell you my alibi either," she said, sadly, despite her smile.

"Oh," Charles said, disappointed. "Well, that's not the only thing I came here for."

"Oh?" Angel replied. "What did you come for, then?"

"I want to believe you, Angel," Charles said. "I want... I want to know for sure that you didn't do it and I want to be able to defend you whole-heartedly."

Angel fiddled with the cord attaching the phone to the glass wall.

"I still can't tell you what I was doing that day," she said. "I'd rather go to prison than tell."

Charles sighed.

"I know," he said. "And that's okay. There are other ways I can learn to trust you."

Angel cocked her head and considered Charles for a moment.

"You're one of a kind, aren't you?" she said.

"We all are," he replied simply.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Forty-five minutes later, Charles had revealed the objects in his plastic bag: a bottle of shampoo, the latest edition of 'Elle', and an air freshener.

"What the fuck," Angel had exclaimed, laughing. "I can't believe you got me this."

"Well," Charles had replied, smiling. "I asked my inner-female what she'd most want if she was trapped on a desert island, or in a grim detention centre and this is what she said."

"Well, tell your inner-female thank you from me," Angel had replied.

Now, Charles was proceeding to recount his best and most hilarious Raven-anecdotes, including one where she had honest to God punched Charles' high school best friend in the face for calling him Charlotte, before discovering that his friend had actually said "pardon".

"Your sister sounds amazing," Angel said, twiddling with the phone cord and leaning back in her chair.

"That she is," Charles replied wistfully.

"Why would your best friend call you Charlotte anyway?" she asked.

Charles' smile froze.

"Well," he said, biting his lip. "That actually used to be the name on my passport until about a year ago."

Angel slowly uncrossed her arms and leant forward in her chair, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Hey, Charles," she said quietly. "If I told you what I was doing on the week of February the 12th, could you promise not to tell a soul?"

"Yeah, absolutely," Charles said.

"Not Shaw, not your team, not even your sister?"

"Of course," Charles nodded. "You can trust me, Angel."

Angel quickly glanced around the room to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation.

"The week of February 12th, I was... I was in hospital for surgery."

"Okay," Charles whispered back, trying to infer the hidden meaning from Angel's wide eyes.

"Like, surgery," Angel repeated, even quieter so Charles had to press the phone against his ear to make out what she was saying. "Like, downstairs surgery... to make my inner-female a little more of an external-female?"

Charles' eyes widened with comprehension.

"You can't tell anyone though!" she hissed down the phone, eyes desperate. "If the clients or the girls at the club find out, I'll be ruined."

"Why do you care what they think?" Charles asked, before he could help himself.

"Because the club is everything I had, except my dad and he's fucking dead!" Angel snapped. "The only place I ever felt like a real person was when I was on stage at the club. You might not need that kind of acceptance, but I do."

Charles fell silent for several seconds.

"I think I understand," he said, slowly. "And I swear on my life I will never tell a single person your alibi."

"Thank you," Angel said, her eyes wet as she tapped her fingernails nervously against the glass. "Thank you."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Shaw came into the office in a rotten mood the next day.

"We're going to have to get her to plead guilty," he told the room. "I don't care if she says she's innocent: without an alibi, there's no way we can plead non-guilty and win."

"Actually," Charles said, raising a tentative hand. "She has an alibi. I went to talk to her last night."

"She has an alibi?" Shaw asked incredulously. "Why didn't you fucking mention this earlier? Tell us what it is."

"I can't," Charles said plainly. "I promised her I wouldn't tell."

"What?" Shaw exclaimed. "What the fuck did you do that for?"

Charles took a deep breath and blinked slowly.

"She wanted to be able to trust me. So I told her I wouldn't even tell you. The important thing is that she's innocent."

"Oh, that's the important thing, is it?" Shaw asked, sardonically. "If she doesn't care enough about her freedom to tell us her alibi, she deserves to go to jail." He picked up his desk phone started dialling a number. "I'm telling them we're pleading guilty."

"Wait," Erik said, a nimble index finger pressing the phone cradle to hang up the call. "If we know she's innocent, we should be able to prove it, alibi or not. Let's not take the easy way out."

Shaw spluttered in shock at Erik's audacity. Then, after recovering himself, he asked: "who here agrees with Erik?"

Charles immediately raised his hand straight up, followed by everyone else in the room apart from Shaw and Erik.

Shaw looked around the room and sighed.

"You better be right on this, Xavier," he said, pointing aggressively at Charles, before leaving the office, no doubt to get some coffee to wash down his bad mood.

"Thanks everyone," Charles said. "And thank you, Erik."

"I'm just doing my job," Erik replied, shrugging and opening his laptop, but Charles could have sworn he saw Erik's jaw relax, ever so slightly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was when Charles was leaving the office late that evening that he heard it. The low sound of a whispered conversation leaking from a crack in the conference room door. Charles didn't particularly want to pry, so he focussed on grabbing all the paperwork strewn on his desk and stuffing it into his satchel, until he realised he recognised one of the voices as Erik.

"I was hoping to start my own law firm one day," Erik's voice said quietly.

Charles glanced up at the door to the conference room and realised he had a narrow view of the scene: a crack between the door and the doorframe revealing a sliver of Erik sitting on a chair, with someone else's hand on his thigh.

"I could help you with that," the other person in the conference replied and Charles realised with a sickening jolt that it was Shaw.

'No, Charles,' he told himself. 'You don't know the entire story here.'

And then he looked up and saw Erik's tell-tale jaw clench and he realised he didn't give a shit about the "entire story": Erik was clearly uncomfortable.

Clearing his throat loudly, Charles clattered across the office towards the conference room door and swung it open wide, announcing: "Erik! I thought you'd gone home already. I distinctly recall owing you a beer, my friend."

Like a flash, Shaw slunk back, unleashing Erik's leg from his grip, while Erik turned his head to Charles with an expression of shock and relief.

"Oh, Professor Shaw," Charles said, with an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry: I didn't realise you were still here. Erik and I-"

"-were just leaving," Erik finished, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. Without even glancing back, he walked out to the elevators, Charles following silently. Once inside the elevator, Charles noticed how unusually still Erik was holding himself, jaw still clenched.

With a gut-wrenching realisation, Charles considered the high possibility that this was not the first time Shaw had hit on Erik, and he was suddenly hit by the enormous urge to back up and punch Shaw right in the bloody face. Instead, he turned to Erik and said:

"do you want to have that beer anyway?"

Rather frighteningly, Erik didn't seem to hear him, merely staring directly ahead at the elevator doors, and Charles didn't think it a good idea to press it. However, when they both walked out of the building, Erik looked up at the lightly drizzling sky with a sigh and said:

"I think I'll take you up on that offer."

They took a taxi to Charles' flat because Charles had insisted that the cheapest and best beer in Cambridge was in the refrigerator of his suite and also because he was quite worried about Erik's unresponsiveness and it seemed a safer bet to take him to a more private, comfortable setting. Luckily, Hank was out of town, visiting family in Maine, so they could have the suite to themselves.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"I didn't know you played chess," Erik mused, noticing the wooden chess board lying against one of the walls of the living room.

"Well, I don't usually," Charles called out from the kitchen, digging in the fridge for beer. Entering the living room with two bottles, he said, "I only play when there is someone to play, which happens once in a blue moon."

"I'll play you," Erik suggested with a sly smile.

"Alright," Charles said, returning the smile and handing Erik a beer. "White or black?"

They played the first six moves of the game in silence, only broken by the muffled sound of felt against wood and their sips of beer. Then,

"the Sicilian defence? Really, Charles?"

"Excuse you," Charles retorted. "It's a classic."

"It's a _cliché_ , that's what it is," Erik scoffed, but there was tenderness behind his words, as he moved his knight forward.

While they played, Charles realised two things. Firstly, Erik was really good at chess. Secondly, Charles Xavier had a mega-attractive guy alone in his flat and wasn't trying to jump his bones. A year ago, this entire evening would have been a disaster, but now, Charles was wearing a goddamn maroon cardigan and playing chess with the guy without expecting anything more. Talk about character growth!

It would be inappropriate to hit on Erik tonight anyway, since the only reason Erik was hanging out with Charles was to escape from creepy dudes hitting on him and maybe drink some really classy beer.

At least that's what he thought to himself, when Erik had won the game of chess (by two moves) and they were both just sitting on the floor like teenagers, both bottles of beer finished, with no idea what to do next.

'He's not interested in you,' Charles repeated in his head like a bloody mantra, when Erik started to smile for no apparent reason, and leant over the chess board towards Charles.

'Don't you dare kiss him,' he thought to himself, as Erik gently placed his right hand against the back of Charles' neck and lowered them both down until Charles' back was flat against the floor and Erik's mouth was hovering above Charles' mouth and he thought he was close enough to count every single freckle on Erik's nose.

But when Erik finally, pain-stakingly leaned in to kiss him, Charles stopped thinking altogether.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Erik's lips were pink and swollen, Charles had at least two hickeys above his collar, and the chess pieces originally on the board had been kicked and elbowed into oblivion. As Erik started working on another hickey behind Charles' ear, Charles became suddenly conscious of how high up his thigh Erik's hand was holding.

"Wait, wait, wait," Charles said, breathlessly, pushing Erik's hand off his thigh.

Immediately, Erik's mouth left Charles' neck and Erik sat up, breathing heavily.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice filled with concern that, for some reason, made Charles feel incredibly guilty.

"I just..." Charles stammered, sitting up too, his heart beating loud and fast. "There's something you might not know about me that might make you change your mind about..." he flushed, " _this_."

Erik frowned.

"Oh fuck, no," Charles exclaimed. "It's not an STD or anything, I just-"

"Is this about you being transgender?" Erik asked, seriously.

Charles' heart stopped altogether.

"Wait, you knew?"

Erik rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

"At the beginning of the year, I saw your birthname on the class register and figured it out."

"And you're okay with it?" Charles asked, carefully.

"Yes?" Erik said, with a nervous laugh.

Charles looked up at him suspiciously.

"You're not straight are you?" he asked, with a frown.

Erik actually laughed at that.

"No, Charles," he said, clearing his throat from the laughter. "I'm not straight. Are there straight guys who will still go for you?"

Charles gave him a meaningful look.

"That's horrible," Erik said, frowning.

Charles shrugged.

"It is what it is."

There was a pause, during which he thought Erik might have been about to say something but then thought better of it.

"Well," Charles said, with a crooked grin. "As _entertaining_ and useful as this little chat was, there are more interesting things I think I could be doing with my mouth right now, in more comfortable places than my living room floor."

Erik's eyes darkened, and Charles could see every single one of his perfect teeth as he smiled.

"Then, by all means, lead the way."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ; )


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, my readers. This got a lot angstier than I had previously anticipated.  
> (Also, a shorter chapter this time- I apologise. I just thought it ended better at this moment.)  
> Also also, this fic has become unwieldy. I thought it would be done and dusted at 12000 words but alas. This beast is probably going to be a mighty 16000+ by the time I'm done with it.
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: abuse of power, referenced non-consensual sexual acts (see end notes for more detailed but spoilery trigger warnings), and using alcohol as a coping mechanism

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Charles woke up the next morning to the sound of his alarm clock, his head felt strangely light. He reached over to his bedside table and tapped his clock with ease. Mornings were never this easy on his skull: what was different? Oh right.

This was the first time he'd ever hooked up with someone without being totally smashed. Then, with a smile, he realised something else.

This was the first time he'd ever hooked up with someone he might actually want to ask out on a real date.

And then he opened his eyes to an empty bed and Erik's clothes, which had been tossed on the floor last night, were gone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Charles arrived at Shaw's office an hour later, everyone was already there, poring over documents in silence. Erik was sitting with Shaw at his desk, reading something on a laptop. Erik must have gone home to shower and change: he was wearing a different tie and Charles noticed, rather embarrassingly, that the rim of his shirt collar was slightly wet from damp hair.

"Xavier, you're finally here," Shaw said, looking up. Charles quickly glanced at a clock on the wall. He was a whole minute early.

"I need to discuss strategy," Shaw continued, pointing at his laptop. "Erik, go get me a coffee with two sugars."

"I can go get that," Charles offered. As the intern, it was surely his duty to supply the office with mundane necessities such as coffee.

Shaw blinked once and then, ignoring Charles completely, said again, "Erik. Coffee."

Erik got up from his chair and left, without even glancing at Charles, and Charles suddenly realised how little he actually understood about the dynamic between Erik Lehnsherr and Sebastian Shaw.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At one o'clock, the team was let out for a long lunch while Emma and Shaw stayed at the office to discuss firm business. Once outside the building, Alex suggested a nearby diner that he claimed had the best sweet potato fries in the city.

"You game, Charles?" asked Darwin, but Charles was mostly focussed on Erik, who appeared to be walking down the block, away from the group.

"Sorry, I'm going to have to take a rain check on that," he said hurriedly, and he jogged after Erik, who was already half way down the street.

"What are you doing?" Erik asked, turning to Charles and giving him a funny look.

"I was hoping we could talk," Charles replied, almost trotting to keep up with Erik's long brisk strides that had no intention of slowing down.

Erik huffed.

"Fine," he conceded. "But we're not going to a diner."

 

 

* * *

 

 

It turns out Erik knew this nice quaint restaurant off the main street that specialised in soup. When they sat down at a booth next to a window, Erik sighed and rested his forearms on the table.

"Are you going to ask me why I left your flat at five o'clock this morning?" he asked in a monotone.

"You left at five o'clock?" Charles exclaimed, incredulously. "I don't think I have ever in my life woken up at five o'clock in the morning."

"Well," Erik said, drily. "I actually woke up at four forty-five so I could leave at five."

Charles paused for a moment.

"Do you really want me to ask you why you left?" he asked, wrinkling his nose in thought.

"Not really," Erik replied, expressionless.

"Alright then," Charles said, grabbing a slice of bread from the basket on the table.

Erik's lip twitched, and he looked at Charles with a mixture of shock and wonder, as though Charles had just appeared out of thin air in the seat across from him.

"So, what's the deal with Emma always wearing white?" Charles asked, tearing out the middle of the slice of bread and popping it in his mouth. "Did her job offer come with a postscript? 'Dress code: futuristic garden party'?"

Charles couldn't help but feel slightly hurt by Erik's obvious lack of feelings for him and wished they could talk address it more directly, but seeing Erik choke on his water at his Emma-joke was so much better than an awkward conversation about feelings that Erik clearly didn't want to have.

Who needed feelings when Charles could make a man like Erik laugh?

Forty minutes later, they were almost done with their meal: they had both chosen the daily special of Schälklöße, which Erik explained was a sort of German dumpling stew. Charles didn't really understand the great appeal, but Erik seemed to be enjoying it, which was really what mattered.

Erik put down his spoon and rested his forearms back down on the table.

"Why did you want to talk with me anyway?" he asked suddenly, his eyes serious. "All we've done is gossip about our co-workers."

Charles shrugged.

"I like gossiping about our co-workers," he said. "And I like talking to you. You're a decent person to have a conversation with."

Erik frowned.

"I don't understand you, Charles."

"Well," Charles said, jokingly. "Sometimes, when someone reacts to your words with words that you find interesting or humo-"

"I'm serious, Charles," Erik interrupted. "Why did you want to talk to me?"

"Because I like it?" Charles asked, rather feeling like he was being tested on something.

"But do you like me?"

"I beg your pardon?" Charles asked. He had, of course, heard exactly what Erik had just asked: he just needed to buy some time while he formulated a coherent answer.

"Do you like me?" Erik repeated, staring determinedly at his empty bowl of soup and not anywhere near Charles' line of sight.

Charles blinked twice, slowly.

"I like you, Erik," he said. "I like your conviction and your sense of humour and your very pretentious style of chess-playing. I like you as a friend. But," he took a deep breath, "I'd also like to like you as something more."

Immediately after this confession, Charles took a cautious sip of his water and watched Erik's lips move ever so slightly, as he seemingly repeated Charles' statement to himself for better comprehension. Charles then made the wise decision to focus on finishing his water, as opposed to staring at Erik's lips for longer than was completely necessary.

"I'm sorry," Erik said, suddenly.

Charles put his glass back down on the table, slowly.

"What for?" he asked, shoulders tensed as he anticipated Erik's reply.

"I'm sorry I can't go out with you."

Charles bit his lip.

"What do you mean?" he asked, despite his better judgement.

"I just..." Erik said, gritting his teeth. "I wouldn't know how."

Charles frowned.

"I've never really been on an actual date," Charles said, every word deliberate. "But from what I can infer from every film ever is that a date is essentially, well," he gestured vaguely at the empty bowls on the table, " _this_."

Erik rolled his eyes.

"It's not that simple," he said. "Shaw is my boss. He-" And then Erik suddenly stopped.

"What does Shaw have to do with anything?" Charles asked tentatively.

Erik grimaced and changed the object of his stare from his bowl to the street outside the window.

"Well, for one thing, he's basically paying for me to even go to university," he said, his voice bitter. "I can't-" And he stopped again.

Charles put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

"Why is Shaw paying your tuition fees?" Charles asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Well," Erik replied, in a voice that was almost frighteningly low. "You might not have noticed, _Charles_ , but Harvard Law School isn't exactly cheap."

"Scholarships exist, Erik," Charles responded, and instantly regretted his statement as he heard how hollow the words sounded coming from him.

Erik sighed and closed his eyes.

After a few seconds, Charles got the hint and numbly gestured to a waiter for the bill. When the waiter came to the table with the bill a few minutes later, Erik's eyes opened and he instantly placed three firm fingers on the small silver tray, and dragged over to his side of the table. Charles didn't try to object: he knew that it would only end with him putting his foot in his mouth again.

The two men left the restaurant in silence, and Charles realised that this was the first time he'd ever had an attractive man pay for his lunch. He looked at Erik, who was still silent and staring stonily ahead. Charles bit his lip. He'd always imagined it feeling better than this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of Charles' afternoon passed pretty badly, with Erik avoiding eye contact with him at all costs and the looming deadline of the first trial day on Monday fast approaching. The whole office was on edge and only vaguely productive due to there not being much left to do, and also due to being stressed out of their minds. When the clock hit six o'clock, Shaw stood up and announced:

"Well, I'm going to go get drunk. I suggest you all do the same and I'll see you bright and early Monday morning at court."

And with that, he left the office.

A solid ten seconds later, Erik stood up and darted out the door. Charles tried not to read too much into it.

Getting drunk did sound incredibly appealing right now.

"Charlie?" a feminine voice behind him asked. "Do you have time to talk?"

Charlie? Nobody had called him that since he was fourteen and a tomboy slash wannabe-punk. Looking up from his desk, he saw a smiling Emma Frost, today in a white peplum dress.

"Um, sure," he said, glancing around the now empty office. The team sure had left quickly.

"So, I noticed you had lunch with Erik today," Emma said, leaning against his desk and still managing to maintain that perfect glossy smile while speaking.

"How did you know?" Charles asked, trying not to be intimidated.

Emma laughed. "Office gossip is my hobby," she explained. "Anyway, did my little interns sort out what was bothering them?"

Charles frowned at being referred to as Emma's "little intern". She couldn't have been more than a few years older than him anyway... And then he realised the implication of her question.

"Erik's not still an intern, is he?" Charles asked, half to Emma and half to himself.

Emma's eyes widened.

"Sounds like you probably didn't sort it out," she said, pushing herself off Charles' desk as if to leave.

"Wait!" Charles said, suddenly standing up.

Emma seemed to be the only one who understood Erik and Shaw's relationship, apart from the men in question of course, and Charles was desperate.

"Can you please just tell me what's happening between Erik and Shaw?" Charles asked, embarrassed at the pleading tone his voice had taken.

Emma's grin widened, as Charles suddenly realised that he just fell into her trap. Damn, she was a good lawyer.

"Oh sweetie," Emma said. "If only I had an entire hour to spare to tell you the whole story. Fortunately for you, however, I am very good at plot summaries.

"Erik and Shaw actually used to date when Erik started grad school. Then, Erik started failing all his classes and lost his scholarship, causing Sebastian to step in. Along the way, I think they must have broken up, but Erik still owes his entire graduate education to Sebastian."

With an apologetic smile, she said, "Erik's probably still hung up on Shaw. I mean, the man owns his own law firm and is extraordinarily wealthy. What's not to love?"

Charles could think of a lot of things one could not love about Sebastian Shaw, but his mind was still focussing on processing the information he had just received.

"Thanks, Emma," he said, numbly.

"No problem, Charlie!" Emma replied, picking up her white laptop bag and folding her coat over one arm. "I'm sorry Erik didn't have the guts to tell you the truth."

That stung, but Charles was too tired to defend either himself or Erik so he watched Emma leave with a vague sense of disgust, before getting his bag and heading home to do some serious thinking.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You didn't tell me you used to date," Charles said, holding his phone against his ear in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other, while he paced anxiously around his living room.

"What?" said a tired-sounding Erik from the other side.

"You and Shaw. It seems like the sort of thing you could have mentioned," Charles said, accusatorily, before taking an excessive gulp from his drink.

"Who told you about that?" Erik asked, sounding a lot more awake now.

"Emma Frost," Charles replied, suppressing a cough at the burning sensation in his throat from the liquor.

There was a muffled vaguely Germanic-sounding profanity on Erik's end of the line.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?" Erik asked.

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Charles retorted. "I just don't think you've been very truthful with me."

"I would never lie to you, Charles."

"Lies by omission are still lies," Charles replied, petulantly, taking another sip of his drink.

"That kind of evidence rarely stands up in a court of law."

"That's not the point!"

"Well, what is your point, Charles?" Erik asked coolly.

"My point is..." Charles said, frowning and pouring himself some more gin from the bottle on the window sill. "I just want you to be honest with me, Erik. I can't stand being kept in the dark like this. I feel like I should at least know what I've got myself into."

"What makes you feel entitled to that knowledge?" Erik retorted.

"Erik," Charles said desperately. "I really like you. You're the only person I'd ever spent the night with and still thought about constantly the next day."

There was a pause, during which Charles wondered if Erik was going to hang up.

Then, suddenly,

"Fine," Erik said, his tony icier than Charles had ever heard it. "Do you really want to know? About a week into my first semester at Harvard Law, my parents were in a car accident back in Berlin. My father died instantly in the collision and my mother was in a coma for two weeks before her lungs gave out entirely. I stopped going to any of my lectures and lost my scholarship to my dream school because some asshole of a Dean thought I was faking depression. Shaw was the only professor who took pity on me and offered to pay all my tuition fees if I became his teaching assistant and an intern at his law firm. I was young, depressed and desperate: of course I said yes. I don't regret that. But by the time he'd started hitting on me, he was already my sole source of income besides my inheritance and I couldn't fucking say no, could I?

"And Charles? For the record, you were the only person _I'd_ ever spent the night with that wasn't my abusive boss trying to take advantage of me."

And suddenly Erik's speech was replaced by a dial tone and a pounding in Charles' head that didn't go away even after he'd downed the rest of his gin and curled up on his bed with the smell of Erik's shampoo still on his pillow and all thoughts were left behind in lieu of that loud, constant throb.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS CONT': In this chapter, it is revealed that Erik and Shaw had an emotionally manipulative relationship by which Shaw paid for Erik's tuition fees for emotional debt and, it is implied, sexual favours. If you don't want to read about this, stop reading when Erik is on the phone with Charles and says "Do you really want to know?" and just skip out that entire section of speech until it says "And suddenly Erik's speech..."
> 
> comments pls????


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles attempts to atone for his sins and suddenly his life gets a lot more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i keep adding chapters to the original length i'm so so sorry remember when this was all going to be over in 12k
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: gendered slurs, mentions of transphobia, a lot of alcohol, the vaguest mention of sick, the vaguest mention of self harm (i don't think anyone will get upset by it but just in case)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Charles wasn't exactly supposed to be working on Saturday. He probably should have been focussing on studying for his other classes, or prepping for the trial on Monday, but he felt like this was more important. He needed to do something unselfish to atone for his major fuck-up with Erik yesterday.

Borrowing hank's car, he decided to use his Saturday morning to drive to the detention centre and check in with Angel. With a bag containing Elle magazine and a really classy bar of Molton Brown soap in the passenger seat, he turned on the radio to the most obnoxious popular radio station and bit his lip. It was going to be a long day.

"Oh hi, Charles," Angel greeted, when Charles sat down across the glass wall from her. "You look worse than I do, and I'm the one convicted of murder."

Charles tried to smile and ran a hand through his uncombed hair. Was he really that transparent?

"Well, I'm not here to talk about me," he said, evasively. "I'm here for my client. How are you holding up?"

"Well," Angel said. "If anything, I'm glad I had that surgery done before I decided to get accused of murder. All the showers here are extremely public. Thanks for your shampoo, by the way: you saved me, man."

"You're welcome," replied Charles, genuinely smiling now. "I have a bar of soap and a copy of Elle in my bag as well, if you want them."

Angel smiled.

"You sure know how to please a woman, Charles," she joked.

Then, "Charles?"

"Yeah?" he said, jerking out of his reverie.

"I thought I'd lost you for a second there," she said, frowning.

"No," Charles said, drawing out the word contemplatively. "I was just thinking about the case. How many people know about your surgery?"

"Just my dad and my step-mom," Angel said. "Why?"

"Your step-mother is the one paying for Shaw's legal counsel, correct?" Charles asked, ignoring Angel's question.

"Yes," she said, rolling her eyes. "Because my step-mom is a total bitch who thinks I'm a freak and a slut and that I killed my dad, so obviously she picked the law firm who has consistently pleaded guilty on sex-worker cases."

Charles frowned.

"Oh God, but she was disgustingly in love with my dad," Angel said, hurriedly. "Don't suddenly start accusing her to get me out of jail. She would never hurt him, you know. She only hates me."

"Of course not," Charles replied, but it did make him feel a little queasy hearing Angel defend this woman who, from the sounds of things, wouldn't think twice about letting Angel go to prison for life.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When he got back home from the detention centre, Hank was sitting on the living room couch, reading some absolute tome for his Advanced International Trade course. He looked up when Charles entered the room and said,

"it was you who borrowed my car, right?"

"Yeah," Charles replied, dropping his bag on the floor next to the couch. "You said I could, right?"

"I did," Hank said. "I just wanted to make sure."

There was an awkward silence, which was unusual between the two flatmates.

Then, exactly when Hank asked, "how's the internship going?", Charles announced, "I'm going to get a beer". They looked at each other and laughed nervously, while Hank went back to reading and Charles went into the kitchen on a hunt for drinks.

Unfortunately, there wasn't any alcohol to be seen. How much gin did Charles drink last night?

With a grimace, he rifled through the cupboards until he found their stash of junk food. He vaguely considered actually toasting the pop tart but that would mean he'd have to remain standing and conscious for at least a minute while his snack was getting toasted. It was not worth the effort.

"That bad?" Hank asked, looking up at Charles, who had just re-entered the living room with an untoasted pop tart in one hand.

"You have no idea," Charles replied, almost collapsing next to Hank on the couch, who moved himself further to one side in order to give Charles more room.

"Ouch!" Hank exclaimed, suddenly.

"Are you okay?"

In reply, Hank reached into the gap between the sofa cushion and the arm of the couch and pulled out a white bishop.

"How on earth did that get there?" Hank laughed, twisting the chess piece in his fingers. Then, "Charles?"

Charles wasn't listening. He was just staring at the chess piece with a mixture of misery and horror, his mouth pursed and his eyes wide.

"Do you need to, like, talk?" Hank asked, in that awkward but concerned way of his.

"I don't know," Charles said, bleakly. "I really fucked up, Hank."

"Is this about the internship?" Hank asked, putting his book on the floor beside the couch. Charles always knew when a conversation was getting serious because Hank was no longer clutching a book on his lap.

"Sort of?" Charles said, biting his lip. "I thought I was ready for this, but clearly I'm not."

Hank blinked.

"Ready for what?"

"To be serious," Charles declared, taking an unnecessarily large bite of his pop tart. "To go to graduate school, and get a real job, and have a serious relationship with a person instead of with my liquor cabinet."

"Is this about Erik again?" Hank asked, slowly.

Charles chewed on his pop tart evasively.

"I just don't know if I should have even come to Harvard at all," he said, finally, leaning back against the couch.

"Well," Hank said, appearing to flounder slightly. "There was a reason you got picked for this internship. There's something special about you, Charles."

Charles swallowed.

"I think I'm going to go to bed," he said, and Hank didn't stop him, despite the fact that it was only five o'clock.

If the thing that was special about Charles was only valued by Sebastian Shaw, Charles would much prefer to be absolutely and entirely ordinary.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Monday came around, Charles put on his most bland navy blue cardigan paired with his black slacks. He could hear Raven's voice in his head chastising him for wearing navy blue and black and he didn't even have the energy to tell it to shut up.

When he arrived at the courthouse, the rest of Shaw's interns, excluding Erik, were congregated in a small circle on the steps. Glancing around, Charles noticed Erik standing at the other side of the courthouse steps, putting up a hand to protect his flame as he lit a cigarette. He fancied he saw Erik look his way, if only for a second, but there was no way he was going to initiate a conversation with Erik after how badly he'd fucked up over the phone on Friday, so he hurried up the stairs to the other interns and tried not to feel like he was running away.

Court was a weird experience for Charles. Watching Shaw argue a case that he and his colleagues had worked so hard on should have been satisfying, or even nerve-wracking, but he just couldn't get over the disgust that burned the back of his throat like acid reflux every time he saw Shaw's face.

Shaw was a good lawyer and they had made a valiant case, but it was obvious within the first hour that this case wasn't going to get anywhere without Angel's alibi. Charles felt sick to his stomach at the small swell of vindication he felt at watching Shaw sweat: what kind of lawyer did that make him?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Charles came home to the flat that afternoon to the sound of voices that were distinctly untelevised. Did Hank actually have someone over for once? Charles pinched himself mentally for that one. It wasn't like Charles ever had friends over in the flat, except Erik.

"Charles?" called a familiar female voice from the living room.

"Raven?"

"Charles!" Raven exclaimed, appearing in the corridor, a bottle of tequila in one hand. "I was in Boston for some wedding photography and I thought I'd come up and surprise my little brother!"

"It's so good to see you," Charles said, stepping forward to give his sister a hug and smelling the tequila on her clothes.

"And it's good to see _you_!" she replied, booping him on the nose with her finger as they entered the living room. "Your terrifyingly sober flatmate has been judging me for my alcohol intake. I'm so glad I don't have to get drunk alone."

"I'm not judging you," Hank said, holding his hands up in defence.

"Isn't he adorable?" Raven said, ruffling Hank's hair with the hand not currently holding the tequila.

Despite his absolutely shitty last couple of days, Charles couldn't help but smile at Hank's flustered expression.

"Oh, by the way," Raven said, pointing at Charles, with a deadly serious expression. "Why are your shot glasses so damn hard to find?"

"I've been trying to explain to her that we don't have shot glasses," Hank said, pushing his glasses back up his nose and attempting to flatten his hair.

"Of course we do," Charles said, with a confused expression. "Anything's a shot glass if you believe in yourself."

Then, as if to prove it, he grabbed the bottle from Raven and swigged.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So, what are your parents like?" Hank asked, innocently, when Charles had caught up to Raven in terms of inebriation and they were both sitting on the floor and cackling about something to do with pineapples and a guy called Logan. At least, that's what he thought they were talking about. It was hard to keep up.

"Probably as drunk as we are right now," Charles said with a grin, which sent Raven into another fit of laughter.

Perhaps it wasn't the healthiest or most dignified way to go about it, but Hank was glad to see Charles smile again.

Then, something in Charles' pocket started ringing.

"Maybe it's Erik!" Charles said to Raven, excitedly. He took out the phone with fumbling fingers and frowning at the screen.

"Just Matt," he said, pouting and showing the screen to Raven, who pouted back, still giggling.

"Maybe you should answer it," Hank supplied, helpfully.

Surprisingly, that's what Charles did. Putting the phone on speaker, he placed it on the coffee table and said,

"hey, Matt."

Hank could almost swear Charles was sober by the cool way he greeted his co-worker but the mischievous wink he gave to Raven gave it away.

"Charles, we're at the detention centre," said the crackly voice on the phone. "Can you come over?"

Hank checked the clock. It was almost eight: what could possibly be happening this long after court being adjourned in the afternoon?

"Why?" Charles asked, frowning. "What's happening?"

"Shaw wants us to plead guilty," the voice explained. "Angel is freaking out. She says she needs to talk to you."

"Okay," Charles replied, suppressing a hiccup. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"And Charles?" the voice said.

"Yeah?"

The voice on the phone sighed.

"I don't know what possessed you to get Angel's alibi and not tell Shaw, but I think it might actually be working in our favour right now."

The man on the other side of the line hung up.  Hank frowned. How much had he missed on his trip to Maine?

"Hey, Hank?" Charles slurred, now attempting to stand up. "I'm going to need to borrow your car."

"Absolutely not," Hank said, with the kind of firm voice he used on his nine year-old sister. "I don't even think it's a good idea for you to go to work in this state."

"Hank," Charles said, suddenly taking hold of Hank's right hand with both of his like a presidential handshake. "Please. I'm the only one Angel trusts. I just need to go there and reassure her. I'll be in and out in ten minutes, I swear."

Four minutes later, Hank was driving both Xavier siblings to the Boston detention centre in his parents' old car. Raven had called shot gun and was currently trying to figure out how to turn on Hank's radio, while Charles was sitting in the backseat, looking worriedly out the window and gnawing at a whole loaf of bread Raven had picked up from the kitchen counter on their way out.

"Do you want some help?" Hank asked Raven, as she succeeded in turning on the air conditioning but not the radio.

"No, no, no," she said, waving him off. "I need to learn."

Hank smiled, and turned his attention back to the road.

"Hey, Charles?" he said, after a moment. "If you want something slightly easier to eat, I think I have some cereal bars in the glove compartment."

"He does!" shouted Raven excitedly, opening the glove compartment and throwing a fistful of cereal bars in the direction of the backseat.

"Oh my God," Charles said, as he gently placed the loaf of bread on the seat beside him and ripped open the cereal bar that had landed nearest to him. "I am so fucking drunk."

Hank glanced in the rear view mirror and silently prayed that his first real friend in the world would not also be his first real friend in the world to vomit in the backseat of his parents' car.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Charles finally arrived at the detention centre attorney visitation room, leaving his sister in the good hands of Hank McCoy, he had at least six cereal bars in his coat pocket and he was holding a bottle of water that he had the good sense to purchase from a vending machine before he came in. Angel, Emma, Matt, Darwin and Alex were crowded around a table, all apparently waiting for Charles to enter.

"Thank God you're here," Darwin said, the moment Charles sat down. "Shaw wants us to throw the case."

Holy crap.  Charles was not sober enough for this.

"If he wants me to plead guilty, I'll fire him," Angel said, vehemently. "He can't make me plead guilty.  I won't do it."

Charles looked at Emma.

"No offence," he said, trying to keep his words as level as possible. "But why are you here?"

Emma shrugged.

"Office gossip is my hobby," she said, cryptically.

"Charles," Angel said, her eyes wide and desperate. "I need you to defend me. You're the only one I trust."

Charles blinked.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"You need to be my defence attorney, Charles," Angel said, and this time it was less of a plead than a command.

Charles wondered if maybe he had drunkenly fallen asleep on the floor of his flat again. This was a very odd dream.

"Are you sure?" he asked, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand to quell his nausea.

"Dead sure," Angel said, nodding and staring him down with a sort of fierce determination.

Charles looked around the table at the other interns, all of whom were staring intently at him like he was some sort of miracle-worker.

"Angel," Charles said, hoping that nobody heard the slight hiccup that appeared in the second syllable of her name. "I have only been studying law for, like, six months."

"I don't care," Angel said resolutely.

"I was drunk when I decided to go to law school in the first place!"

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.  Alex choked back a laugh and Charles dimly thought he might have heard Darwin say "wait, seriously?".

"I only trust you," Angel said, her chin up in defiance.

"Well, I'm pretty sure I can't," Charles replied. "I'm not even close to having a degree or a license."

"Actually," Emma announced with a sweet smile. "Rule 3:03 of the Supreme Judicial Court states that a law student may appear on behalf of a defendant in criminal proceedings provided that the conduct of the case is under the general supervision of a member of the bar of the Commonwealth."

Charles blinked. That sure was a lot of words.

"Which means," Emma continued, airily. "You can be Angel's defence attorney if I stick around to make sure you don't go breaking any laws of conduct."

Charles looked back at Angel.

"And you're absolutely positive you want to go through with this?" he asked, in disbelief, only stumbling over his words once.

Angel nodded.

Charles looked around the table.

"I can't possibly do this alone," he said. "Are you guys still going to be working the case with me?"

"If you want us to," Alex said, while the other interns nodded and made sounds of assent.

"What about Erik?" Charles asked, trying to keep his tone nonchalant. "Does he know what's happening?"

"Oh yes," Emma replied. "I've been keeping him informed. But he says he doesn't want to give you any sort of help or advice when you take the case because he doesn't want to lose his internship."

'And, probably, his entire law degree,' Charles thought to himself.

Then, as the second foot dropped in Charles' tequila-addled mind, so did his jaw.

"Wait," he said. "Shaw's totally going to fire me, isn't he?"

"Oh sweetie," Emma said, with a perfect sympathetic smile.

Charles took that as a yes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Charles walked back to Hank's car, unsure if the shakiness in his legs was due to the tequila or the fact that he suddenly had the responsibility of a young woman's future on his hands when he could barely be responsible for his own. How could Angel have so much trust in him when he could barely trust himself to show up to work on time and not hung-over or even still drunk?

The moment he opened the door to the backseat, Hank asked:

"what happened?"

Charles sat down and buckled his seatbelt. Slowly, he took a sip of his water, before saying:

"I'm the leading defence attorney of a murder trial."

"Sick!" Raven said, at the exact same time Hank asked, "how?".

Charles sighed.

"I don't really know," he said, truthfully and tiredly. "I'm sorry I made you drive me out here and wait all this time, Hank. Let's just go home and sleep it off."

Hank nodded, turned the key in the ignition and started to drive back to the flat. The three of them sat in silence for the journey: even Raven kept her fidgety hands to herself.

If Charles chose not to say anything about the smudge of lipstick on Hank's collar, it was because he was a good brother and not because he knew Raven had definitely found much more incriminating evidence on Charles at one point or another in their lives, and Charles _really_ didn't want to think about how disastrous his life was, now that his bad decisions actually had consequences beyond a hangover and embarrassing hickeys.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After some administrative shuffling propelled by the terrifyingly competent Emma Frost, the second day of the trial was postponed to Wednesday so that the appropriate paperwork could be completed and filed. Charles was infinitely thankful that he did not have to interact with Shaw beyond reading the professor's terse email confirming that, not only was Charles removed from the internship program, he was also going to receive an F in Criminal Law 101. Raven thought it was hilarious that Charles was going to fail an introductory module to criminal law because he was too busy actually _being_ a criminal lawyer, but Charles was simply too stressed to appreciate the irony, mostly due to the fact that he literally had an innocent life to save from an eternity in a federal prison and he had no fucking idea what he was doing.

On that Tuesday of preparation, Charles had never been so grateful for a team of people in his life. Alex volunteered to gather all the documents pertaining the Salvadore case from Shaw's office and bring them to the university meeting room where they were currently based. Darwin stuck a sign on the door reading 'Murder Trial Business: Keep Out' that had stopped anyone from interrupting their work and Matt organised a couple of his friends and/or admirers to bring coffee and snacks to the meeting room at scheduled intervals throughout the day.

Talking strategy and reading up on loopholes and semantics pertaining the case, Charles had never worked so hard in his life. At quarter past midnight, however, he looked at his watch and told the team to go home and get some rest. They were still not as prepared as they could have been, but Charles could recognise when a group of people had worked past their point of productivity. Thanking everyone profusely and promising rounds of drinks for when this was all over, he gathered the stacks of papers and books and carried them in two cardboard boxes that, according to their labels, had originally held printer paper. Alex had probably stolen from the stationery cupboard but, as an honest-to-God lawyer, Charles chose to ignore that particular crime.

It took him much longer than usual, walking back to the suite with two heavy boxes, and so it was already past one am when he was actually in his bed. However exhausted he was though, Charles didn't get a wink of sleep until at least after three-thirty in the morning, when he had dragged himself out of his bedroom and onto the living room couch, away from the pillows and sheets that smelt too much like Erik and his own torrid guilt.  He fell asleep the moment his head hit the sofa cushion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to get "anything's a shot glass if you believe in yourself" on a t shirt


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter you've all been waiting for
> 
> (disclaimer: my only interaction with the Law is watching legally blonde and playing ace attorney so honestly who knows how real trials work)
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: small emeto warning at the beginning of the chapter, very fleeting transphobia later and a lot of alcohol

 

 

 

 

 

A few minutes before they entered the courtroom for the second day of the trial, Charles handed Angel a copy of Marie Claire magazine.

"In case you get bored," he quipped.

She didn't quite smile, but her face relaxed somewhat.

"I was going to get you a bottle of vodka but apparently that's against the rules," Charles added, with a tentative smile.

Angel's lip twitched, which Charles counted as a victory.

"When you've got me off," she said. "What say we both get that bottle together?"

Charles smiled in reply but he didn't want to say actually yes to her offer in case he jinxed the entire case. Also, he had just seen the very intimidating and experienced prosecutor of the case waltz past and opening his mouth at that moment might have resulted in him throwing up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"Mr Xavier," the judge called. "Please call your first witness."

"I would like to recall the victim's wife, Ms Chloe Salvadore, as a defence witness."

Chloe Salvadore was a petite middle-aged woman with strawberry blonde hair that reached her shoulders. She still had her wedding ring on her hand.

"Ms Salvadore," Charles said. "Your police testimony states that when you got home your husband was dead. Is this correct?"

"That's what I said," she replied, nodding.

"So, he was already dead when you got home?" Charles confirmed.

"Yes."

In the back of the courtroom, Alex Summers was putting his head in his hands. Emma was still looking on and smiling, but Charles wasn't sure if that was in encouragement or because she was enjoying the drama of watching him fail.

"But you weren't already home because you were having a haircut, right?" he asked.

Ms Salvadore rolled her eyes.

"Yes," she said. "I was getting it re-dyed and cut."

Charles nodded.

"Miss Salvadore," he continued. "Can you please tell us what time your hairdressing appointment was?"

"Six-thirty."

Charles raised his eyebrows.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she replied, testily. "I had originally scheduled it for two, but I moved it to later because I was meeting a friend."

"And this appointment was at the barber's two blocks from your house, correct?"

"Yes."

"So," Charles clarified. "Almost enough time for an hour-long session before you came home?"

"I guess so."

Charles smiled.

"Objection!" the prosecutor called. "Why is this relevant?"

"Oh, I have a point," Charles reassured her, raising his hand. "I promise."

"Then make it, Mr Xavier," the judge said, coolly.

Charles nodded earnestly, and turned back to the witness stand.

"Ms Salvadore, what is your original hair colour?"

"Dark brown."

"They did a pretty good job of bleaching it," Charles commented. "I can't see your roots at all."

In the audience, Shaw rolled his eyes.

"I guess," Ms Salvadore said, shrugging.

Charles hummed, pacing back across the courtroom.

"Ms Salvadore," he said, as he picked up a piece of paper from his desk. "Do you know how long it takes for hydrogen peroxide to oxidise the melanin in dark brown hair?"

Ms Salvadore blinked.

"Um-"

"About forty to fifty minutes," Charles said, looking up at her. "And do you know how long it takes for the ammonia in hair dye to react with the cuticle layer so that the developer and colour molecules can permeate the hair strand?"

Chloe Salvadore paled.

"About thirty to forty minutes," Charles told her, conversationally. Then, turning to the jury, he said, "so, at the very least, your hairdressing appointment must have taken, what, seventy minutes? And that's not even if we're including the time it took to cut your hair."

Ms Salvadore's jaw dropped.

"So it seems rather unlikely," Charles continued, unfazed, "that you arrived home at seven-thirty on the day of the murder. Wouldn't you agree?"

Ms Salvadore did not respond.

"However," Charles said slowly. "If we were to consider the hypothesis that you had actually attended your hairdressing appointment at two, as you had originally planned, you would have had plenty of time to go home before either Angel or your husband arrived, isn't that correct?"

Ms Salvadore's eyes were widening.

"Therefore," Charles proceeded, his voice becoming louder with confidence. "If we were to continue this train of thought, it would make sense that, when Mr Salvadore arrived home from work at five, you and he were the only two people in the house. Do you agree, Ms Salvadore?"

"I didn't kill my husband," she said hastily, her face pale and sweaty.

Charles carried on regardless.

"If this hypothesis were true, there would have been plenty of time for you to run out from your murder scene and wait until Angel had got there before going back and-"

"I never wanted to kill him!" Ms Salvadore blurted out, standing up and pointing at Angel. "I thought it was that freak coming into my house that evening!"

She gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth, as the courtroom suddenly went deathly silent.

Charles blinked. Then, he slowly walked over to the judge's chair, his steps tapping loudly against the shiny wood floor.

"Could I please move that the witness be arrested?" he asked quietly.

The judge looked at him with a bemused expression, before giving him a brief nod of the head, as a bailiff entered to handcuff Ms Salvadore.

"Congratulations, Mr Xavier," the judge said, after Angel had been announced not guilty on all charges. "I expect I'll be seeing you again soon."

And when Charles and Angel were walking out of the courthouse, through the swarm of journalists and photographers desperate for a picture or a statement on the day's proceedings, he caught himself willingly smiling at the cameras and even waving to the reporters. Leaning towards Angel's ear, he said:

"let's go get that vodka."

"Can we make it a party?" Angel asked, her eyes still wet from the emotion of the day.

Charles beamed.

"Absolutely. I just need to make one quick phonecall."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hank McCoy's first party was definitely not what he had ever expected. Not only was it at a classy bar in central Boston on a Wednesday night, but the bar was entirely empty except for the gang of law students and a large group of women who'd introduced themselves as Angel's co-workers from the club.

He took a sip from his beer and watched Charles and Angel knock back three consecutive vodka shots to a raucous applause.

He smiled. This was nice. He had a warm, buzzing feeling in his stomach and a sweetness on his tongue. He still wasn't sure if he liked the taste of beer, but he liked this. He liked this feeling.

At that moment, Charles seemed to have noticed Hank was sitting alone at a table, and he opened his arms wide and walked towards Hank with the most upmost enthusiasm.

"Hank McCoy!" he exclaimed, smile wide and cheeks pink.

"Hi, Charles," Hank replied with a smile.

"Hank McCoy," Charles said, in that serious tone drunks always seemed to use. "You're such a good friend, Hank. I can always trust you, my friend."

Hank coughed, his cheeks heating up as he felt something akin to guilt pinch the back of his neck.

"Charles," he said, face hot. "I have to tell you something."

"I am always here for you, my friend."

Hank bit his lip.

"I made out with your sister," he confessed finally, his shoulders automatically tensing for the inevitable punch. "I'm really sorry."

Charles studied him thoughtfully.

"No, you're not sorry," he said. "And I knew."

And then he solemnly patted Hank on the back and left to go take some more shots with his fellow interns.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Charles had already lost count of his drinks when he saw Erik enter the door of the bar and cross over the room over to him. He was wearing that same black turtleneck he'd worn when they had first met and smelt like he had just smoked half a packet of cigarettes before coming in, which, Charles realised, he probably had. But then again, Charles had been practically deep-throating a bottle of vodka half an hour ago, so he wasn't really in a position to judge.

"Erik?" he said, his voice a lot quieter and softer than it usually was when he was drunk.

"Hey, Charles," Erik replied, his voice hoarse, probably from the cigarettes. "Congratulations on winning your case. I hope it's okay that Emma invited me here to your celebration."

"Oh no, yes, it's perfectly fine, it's lovely, even, I'm glad you're here," Charles babbled, half-convinced that if he didn't show enough enthusiasm, Erik would get up and leave him again.

Erik sucked the inside of his cheek for a second.

"Can we talk?"

"Yeah," said Charles with a sigh. "I think that might be a good idea."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Outside the bar, it probably would have been cold if Charles didn't have so much alcohol coursing through his veins. He watched Erik carefully, trying to detect any signs of shivering or goosebumps.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come to watch you in the trial," Erik said, suddenly. "Matt said you were phenomenal."

Charles blushed and twisted his fingers together.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. "I know Shaw would have fired you if you had come."

Erik breathed out a low breath.

"I just..." he started, gazing into the distance directly above Charles' left shoulder, before looking down at the ground and gritting his teeth. "I just wish I didn't have to be scared."

Charles' eyes prickled, but he brushed the feeling away with the sleeve of his jumper.

"You don't have to be scared, Erik," he said, earnestly. "You don't have to let Sebastian Shaw control your life."

Erik snorted.

"No, seriously," Charles pressed. "I have a trust fund. I can-"

"Charles, please don't do this to me," Erik interrupted, still looking down at his feet.

"Do what?"

"Please don't be the guy who thinks he can fix everything," Erik said.

Charles frowned.

"What do you want me to be, then?" he asked, in a very small voice.

Erik sighed, exasperatedly, and looked up into Charles' eyes.

"Just be the confident little shit you were when we first met," he said, quietly. "Be persistent and mouthy and get drunk and emotional and talk about how much you adore your sister but hate your classmates. Be funny, or extremely not funny but believe you're funny anyway.

"Charles, I don't care if you want to change the world. Just please don't want to change me."

Charles felt a tear he couldn't even remember shedding trickle down to his chin.

"Okay," he said, finally.

"Okay?" Erik asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Okay," Charles said, tilting his chin up. "I won't try to convince you to do anything you don't want to."

"Really?" Erik asked, and the genuine surprise in his voice made Charles cry even more.

"Really," he said, choking back something between a laugh and a sob. "Erik, I love you. However much input you want me to have in your life, I would be honoured to even be in it."

Erik's lips parted in the most gentle expression of surprise.

"You love me?" he whispered, taking a slow step towards Charles with a confused frown on his face.

Charles blinked.

"I don't know," he said, honestly. "I don't think I even quite know what love is yet, or what it means to me. But," he took a deep, shaky breath, "I think I could love you one day."

Erik's lips stretched into a lop-sided grin.

"I think I could love you one day too," he said with a trembling laugh and he pressed his forehead against Charles'.

Charles laughed too, and felt their foreheads bump against each other with the force of it. With a tentative hand, he reached up to touch the back of Erik's neck with an almost ghostly hesitation thrumming through his fingertips.

They stayed like that for several seconds, and Charles could feel both of their heart beats colliding where his hand met Erik's neck.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?" he whispered, his eyes widening at the feeling of Erik's hot breath skimming over his lips.

"I think so," Erik whispered back, as he gently pressed Charles' back against the cold wall of the bar and leant in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only the epilogue left to go ~~~~~~~
> 
> please tell me what you think i've been evading writing an english essay for this


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THE FINAL CHAPTER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long i had a uni interview and also a lowkey psychotic episode but i'm fine now and here !!!!!!!!! is the final chapter !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> enjoy my beebs and thank you for sticking by this story for so long ilyall
> 
> WARNINGS FOR: vague implications of people being non consensually creeped on and a bit of transphobia

 

 

 

 

 

Charles woke up the next morning, fully clothed and in his own bed. With a pained moan, he rolled over and opened his eyes, noticing a small white painkiller and a glass of water on his bedside table next to him. He fumbled gratefully for the aspirin and took it without thinking to sit up, managing to spill half the water onto his face in the process.

"Careful, there," said a familiar accented voice.

Charles looked up to see Erik leaning casually against his bedroom doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand and an amused expression on his face. Charles groaned, mostly in embarrassment, and covered his face with the crook of his elbow to conceal his own ridiculous smile.

"What time is it?" he asked, the words dampened by his cardigan sleeve.

"Almost nine-thirty," Erik replied.

Charles nodded, the information slowly soaking through his hung-over brain.

"So you've been awake for-"

"Almost four and a half hours," Erik said, with a self-satisfied tone.

Charles made a muffled noise that was half-way between a groan and a laugh.

"And have you been standing in my bedroom doorway the entire time?" he joked.

"Actually," Erik said. "I took a warm shower, had a lovely chat with your flatmate about Antonio Colinas' poetry and then perused your bookshelf for the remaining two hours."

"See anything you like?" Charles asked flirtatiously, peeking under his elbow at Erik.

Erik smiled slyly.

"That's actually what I wanted to talk about," he said.

Charles pushed himself up into a sitting position against his headboard and patted the pillow next to him.

"Alright then," he said, his voice still a little hoarse from last night. "Let's talk."

Erik stared suspiciously at the bed for a moment before he conceded and sat down next to Charles.

"I still have to work for Shaw," he said, avoiding Charles' eyes by looking directly forward.

"Okay," Charles said.

"But I'm in my last year of school and there are only a couple of months until I graduate and then I'm finding somewhere else."

"That sounds great," Charles told him because, honestly, even if _he_ didn't think Erik should be going within ten metres of Sebastian Shaw, his own opinion didn't matter for shit as long as Erik was the one choosing his own boundaries.

"And I want us to take this slow," Erik continued, still looking directly ahead and speaking as professionally as though he had memorised a list of items to discuss with Charles. It was quite lawyerly and very cute.

"I don't think we should sleep together for at least another two months," Erik said.

Wait, what? Did he hear that right? Charles hadn't been abstinent for two consecutive months since the night of his eighteenth birthday. He didn't even know if it was medically possible for him at this point.

"Two months?" he asked weakly, trying desperately to cover up how shocked he was at this suggestion.

"I want to be able to trust you, Charles," Erik said, placing his now empty mug of coffee on the bed side table.

"I understand," Charles replied, and he did. If this was what it took for Erik to learn to trust him, so be it. Then, with a slight jolt of pride, he realised this was probably the most mature conversation about relationships he'd ever had in his life. Charles really was getting his shit together this year.

As though he could hear Charles' internal self-congratulation, Erik smiled and leant forward to kiss him gently on the forehead.

"I have a class in an hour," he said. "But can I pick you up for dinner?"

Charles smiled and bit his lower lip.

"I'd like that," he said.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_March_

 

Charles was sitting on his living room sofa, rereading his course material, when Erik arrived. He knew something was wrong the moment he heard the door open without a knock of warning or a called out greeting. So, apparently, did Hank, who very strategically excused himself to go to his room before Erik had even reached the living room.

With a clenched jaw, Erik sat down next to Charles on the sofa and there was a whole minute of tense silence before he spoke.

"I quit my job," he said, forcefully not looking at Charles. "I'm not going back."

Charles didn't want to ask about what had motivated this sudden change of heart, because he already sort of knew. With a sympathetic sigh, he tenderly placed an arm around Erik's shoulders and let him rest against Charles' chest as they breathed together, slowly and deeply for several minutes, not saying anything.

Erik spent that night at Charles' flat. Charles wasn't quite sure how to sleep next to someone without actually sleeping with them, so they lay there in his bed, side by side like corpses on their backs. After a few minutes of this weird awkwardness, Charles gave up, and wrapped an arm around Erik, and they quickly fell asleep with entangled limbs and Charles' face buried in Erik's chest.

The next morning, Charles woke up to an empty bed and a note from Erik explaining that he needed to make some calls. Later that day, Erik actually rang the doorbell, which Charles eagerly answered, to see his boyfriend standing in the doorway with a pleased smirk.

"Guess what?" Erik asked, in that stilted, self-conscious way that he spoke every time he was about to deliver a punchline.

"What?" asked Charles, rolling his eyes.

"Emma quit too. She's offered me a student loan and we're going to start our own law firm."

 

 

* * *

 

 

_April_

 

It was morning in Erik's dingy student flat. Erik was sitting at his breakfast table, flicking through the newspaper while Charles got ready.

"Erik?" an unusually tentative voice from the bedroom called. "Can you come in here, please?"

Fearing the worst, Erik jumped up and ran into the bedroom, where he noticed that the door to his en suite bathroom was wide open and Charles was standing in nothing but his boxers, staring into Erik's bathroom mirror with a wide grin.

"What's happening?" Erik asked, slowly entering the bathroom.

"Look!" Charles exclaimed in reply, turning to Erik and raising his chin and showing off his smooth, pale throat.

"Uh," Erik said, swallowing drily. "What exactly am I looking at here?"

"I've grown a beard!"

Erik leant forward and examined Charles' chin, where, in the harsh fluorescent bathroom light, he actually did a very pale ginger peach fuzz beginning to grow.

"That certainly is something," Erik said, diplomatically. "Congratulations."

"I need to learn how to shave," Charles mused, stroking his chin and looking back into the mirror, his eyes darting once to Erik's reflection.

And when, half an hour later, Erik saw Charles, still wearing nothing but his boxers and an inordinately huge grin, with a small white patch of shaving cream on his jaw still not yet washed off, he was seized with the sudden, terrifying thought that maybe this was what love was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_May_

 

The two month abstinent period officially ended in the last week of April. Unfortunately, Erik was out for the week, visiting his cousin and her kids in Germany and wasn't coming back until 3rd May. During this week, Charles spent half the time sullenly moping, and the other half sending flirtatious messages to Erik, which included one particularly racy series of pictures depicting Charles sitting on the kitchen counter, wearing one of Erik's shirts and rather messily eating a box of cherries.

From the evening of the 3rd of May to the morning of the 5th, Erik and Charles only left the bedroom for food.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_June_

 

It was a brilliantly sunny day and Charles was in high spirits, making notes for his human rights law course while sitting on the lawn outside the international law building, waiting for Erik to get out of class.

"Charles Xavier?"

Charles looked up from his messy pile of hand-written notes to see two teenagers staring down at him nervously.

"That's me," he replied. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," said the first kid, who couldn't have been over twenty. "I'm Kitty Pryde and this is Rogue. We're Harvard undergrads and we read about your success in court a few months ago."

"for a murder trial," Charles confirmed, quite worried now that he was about to hear a confession of murder from these two teenagers.

"Yes," Rogue said. "But I also recognised your name from the society pages. My mother likes to keep up to date with the New York gentry gossip."

Charles' stomach dropped.

"I hope this isn't too much of an imposition," Kitty continued. "But we're part of an activist group for transgender students here at Harvard and we were wondering if you could help us out with a legal issue. Namely, one of our friends got threatened suspension because she used the girls' bathrooms."

"That's awful," Charles said, his heart rate slowing as the probability of him getting blackmailed decreased significantly. "But why did you decide to come to me?"

"Because you're practically a celebrity around here," Rogue said. "No one can shut up about your victory in court. Plus, the fact that you're also tra-"

"Not everyone knows that," Charles interrupted, hating the way that he had to quickly scan their surroundings to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

"You shouldn't be ashamed of it," Rogue said, frowning.

"I'm not ashamed!" Charles retorted, rather defensively.

Rogue and Kitty exchanged a look, which Charles tried not to feel annoyed about, even though he must have been at least six years older than these kids.

"Well, if you change your mind, here are the details of the club," Kitty said, handing him a business card. "Our next meeting is on Friday."

 

 

* * *

 

 

"You should go," Erik said, looking at the business card which read 'The Siblinghood' in bright, embossed letters.

"I feel like such a fraud," Charles said. "I'm not even a real lawyer. I've even spent the last year hiding who I was and now suddenly they want me to be their spokesperson?"

"Well, that's sort of part of the job," Erik replied drily. "Being a spokesperson."

"You know what I mean," Charles said, irritably. "And then what? Everyone on campus will know about me and there'll be nothing I can do to stop them from knowing. Once it's out, it's out."

"Who gives a fuck if they know?" Erik asked, his tone actually curious.

"Because..." Charles stammered. "Because it's private information! I don't want everyone knowing my business."

"You shouldn't have to hide," Erik said.

"I know that."

"And," Erik continued. "More importantly, those kids you talked to today shouldn't have to hide either."

Charles frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean, Charles, is that we can pretend all we like that our decisions only affect ourselves but the fact remains that your decisions make a difference now. Like it or not, you make a difference. And if taking on this case means other kids don't have to go through what you did, I really don't know why you're hesitating."

Charles put his head in his hands.

"I'm a fucking coward, Erik," he confessed shakily.

"No you're not," Erik replied, easily. "And even if you weren't going to go to the meeting and champion for trans rights and defend that poor girl's right to go to the bathroom, you still wouldn't be a coward."

Charles sniffed indignantly and raised his head.

"Why are you so sure I'm going to go?" he asked, suspiciously.

"Because you're a self-sacrificing idiot," Erik replied, with a smile. "And I love you."

There was a moment, when Erik's eyes widened with realisation and Charles' mouth dropped ever so slightly open, and the whole room seemed to rock for a moment like the two men were sitting in the head of a chess piece that had been gently prodded by a hesitating player, before Charles carefully licked his lips, and smiled back.

"I love you too, Erik."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and they all lived happily ever after the end

**Author's Note:**

> [talk to me about trans charles xavier on my tumblr](http://www.paranoidsteve.tumblr.com)


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